Some call them *******.
Smart girls will call them weapons...
...of mass seduction.

Never thought I'd have
such an addict's persona.
Never say never.

It's a weird feeling.
I sneezed so hard I think I
popped an *****.

******* may love it,
but I'd rather not know when
I'm being ignored.

Boy's hand works last hook.
Bra flies. Girl grins. Ain't no shame
in coming undone.

I wouldn't mind it—
being the crayon color
that no one could name.

Sugar daddies? No.
I'll make my own **** sugar –
and plenty of it.

Oh conference calls,
I've named you something better:
“Haiku-Writing Hour.”

Adulthood seems like
this constant battle to find
the silver lining.

It's laundry day.
All ******* and bras in queue.
Hey there, bathing suit.

It can't be helped—
I'm groomed to recognize rhythms
to slink and roll to synthetic beats,
to melt and form to that tight snare,
and find pure bliss in a groove.

So pay no mind
as I give my hips free reign.
This music makes a satisfying breeze,
and my freak flag needs to fly.

They say we need things
like calcium and sunshine;
I think I'd survive

without all that stuff.
Though I may wither away
without pretty words.

Thought maybe I'd stop
writing haiku for awhile.
April Fools, *******.